


shrinking in the shallow water

by leonshardt



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Electrocution, Hazing, M/M, cigarette burns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 11:56:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7507372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonshardt/pseuds/leonshardt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“No scars, no blood,” Reyes had said. That’s all he said before throwing McCree to the wolves.</p><p>kink meme fill: reyes hazes mccree via gangbangs</p>
            </blockquote>





	shrinking in the shallow water

**Author's Note:**

> not beta'd or edited. i can't even look at this directly.
> 
> heed the warnings. original prompt [here](https://overwatch-kink.dreamwidth.org/679.html?thread=39847#cmt39847).

 

“No scars, no blood,” Reyes had said. That’s all he said before throwing McCree to the wolves.

McCree wonders if Reyes knew, when he took him in. Read his file, or asked around in what was left of the Deadlocks all about the sordid little details of McCree’s past life. It seemed like a long time ago that he was in the gang. Even longer since he’d sucked cock for ammunition, when times had gotten hard and targets had gotten smarter; _that Jesse McCree, he’ll kill you with his mouth or his gun, or both_ , was the word on the street, and he liked to think some things didn’t change.

And it’s hard to see in the dim light, particularly from where McCree’s lying on his back, but the Blackwatch agent on top of him seems impressed enough. “You got a nice ass, kid,” the guy says, running his hands along his hips, down the dip of his inner thighs.

“Thanks,” McCree drawls, “My momma always said it’s my best feature.” He earns a few chuckles at that. The guy hovering above him doesn’t change his expression, just keeps looking down at McCree, eyes dark, like he’s thinking of all the filthy things he wants to do to him.

He starts thrusting lazily, settling his hands onto McCree’s shoulders to keep him in place. On his back like this, McCree didn’t have much leverage to move around, but that’s manageable. As the catcalls from the surrounding agents keep saying, he’s got all night to get this right.

Besides the guy currently fucking him, there’s half a dozen Blackwatch agents plus Reyes between McCree and the nearest exit. Fifteen feet between him and Reyes. Twenty feet to the door. For a second, he wonders what would happen if he made a break for it; unarmed and naked, he wouldn’t have half a chance. What would happen when they caught him? Tie him up, probably. Mag-lock his legs apart, spread wide, so he couldn’t run. Call him obscene names and kick him in the ribs while he couldn’t fight back, until he wheezes for breath, until his eyes run. _No scars, no blood_ , Reyes had said. They don’t need to make him bleed to make him beg. The thought gets him harder than anything.

And the thing is, when he looks back at Reyes, the commander isn’t even looking at him. Reyes is tipping his head back, blowing a plume of smoke towards the ceiling. The tip of his cigar glows. He still isn’t looking at him.

It stings a little. Just a little.

McCree hooks one leg over the guy’s shoulder, digs the other firmly against the ground, and clenches down. Hard. The agent groans sharply, the sound loud in the room. There’s a whoop somewhere from the onlookers. And then finally, finally Reyes looks at him. Just a flicker of his eyes. A curl on his lips.

Grinning, McCree lies back down and takes it. 

 

 --

 

The guy pulls as when he comes, spending himself all over McCree’s abdomen on top of the semen that’s already drying there. McCree flinches as the warm liquid makes contact with his bare skin. He lays there, panting, as the other man tucks himself back in. “Thanks, sweetheart,” the agent says, giving McCree a pat on the cheek before standing up.

McCree struggles to push himself up on his elbows, feeling the slickness dripping down his sides, his thighs. He’s still hard. The guy hadn’t even given him the courtesy of getting him off.

“Move it, Anders,” comes of voice from somewhere, and McCree turns to look. Another agent is pushing his way to the front. He stops in front of McCree, appraising him with a low whistle. “Damn, you’re a mess, kid,” he says. McCree has to crane his head up to look at him from where he’s kneeling on the ground – Christ, this guy is tall – and then he feels a hand under his jaw, yanking his face up.

“Agent Thornhill,” the man says. “Nice to meet you, newbie.”

McCree shows his teeth. “Pleasure to be workin’ with you, partner.”

Thornhill huffs out a laugh. “You got some mouth on you, newbie. Heard you while they were taking you in. It got all sort of ideas running in my head, you know that?” He presses one thumb against McCree’s lip, prying his jaw open. McCree breathes shallowly, anticipating, as the other man unzips his fly with his other hand.

Thornhill shoves his cock into McCree’s mouth with barely a warning. McCree chokes, caught between breaths, working his jaw around the sudden intrusion. Rude. Thornhill doesn’t stop there; inch by inch, he sinks his dick to the hilt. He pauses then, letting the convulsions of McCree’s throat work around him as he gags for air. “Fuck,” he breathes, watching McCree twist below him.

He pulls McCree off, just a half second of respite, before slamming back in. McCree makes a sound somewhere between a sob and a moan, muffled by the length in his throat. He needs to breathe. He needs to come. Black dots swim across his vision like an oil spill.

He thought, momentarily, what would happen if he passed out. Just blacked out like some punk on his knees, with some Blackwatch agent fucking his face, with Reyes watching. Would Reyes make them stop? Or would they keep fucking him through it, using his body until they all had their fill?

McCree groans. The taste of cum floods his mouth. He tries to swallow, tries to wrestle his muscles back under control, but thick ropes of cum and spit end up dripping down his chin as he falls forward, retching.

He rolls over easily on his side when Thornhill nudges him with a boot. “Huh,” the agent says, “Would you look at that.” Throughout the whole ordeal, McCree had remained hard; beads of pre-come leak down his cock, mingling with the sweat and slick on his skin. “You like it rough, huh?” McCree doesn’t trust his voice to answer. His throat feels scraped raw, like sandpaper. He presses his face against the floor, watching as his breath fogs up against the cool tile. His mind goes blank for a while as he focuses on drawing breath. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. There are people talking around him, indistinct.

Then somebody’s behind him again, pulling him up on his hands and knees, yanking his legs apart. McCree grits his teeth. His thighs are killing him; his muscles are sore from holding himself up. This position is really hard on his knees, too. The guy behind him doesn’t seem to care, as he sinks his cock into McCree with a grunt.

Inhale. Exhale.

There’s a click of boot heels on the tile, and McCree tiredly lifts his head up to look at the new agent approaching him.

“Agent Carswell, Blackwatch medic,” she says, introducing herself. “Got you a present here.” McCree watches as she kneels down and plants some sort of device on the floor, and then there’s a soft warm glow surrounding him, emanating from the device. It washes away some of the aching in his muscles. McCree moans low in his throat, tipping his head back. The guy behind him takes it as an invitation to fist a hand sloppily in his hair, tugging roughly.

“Some kind of—ah— deployable biotic field?” he gasps, between the jerks of his hips.

“Overwatch tech,” Carswell says with a grin, “you’ll get to see all the neat little toys we get to play with here.”

McCree grunts. The biotics are making his limbs buzz pleasantly, and he closes his eyes, chasing the feeling.

 

 --

 

There’s a moment later when nobody is touching him, and McCree takes the opportunity to assess the damage. He’s going to be sore for a long time. Every part of him feels dirty and used. He shifts his weight, and on the roll over he feels something wet and sticky dripping down his thighs. His stomach clenches, and he holds back a tremor. He won’t be weak, not now. He got this far, and this is nothing compared to a life sentence.

People are talking again. McCree furrows his brows, sighing. The part of him that just wants to curl away into the quiet corners of his mind is dragged out again, into attention, like there’s something he needs to be focusing on.

“Oh come on, that’s just brutal.”

“But in a fun way, yeah? The field’s still up, he can take it.”

“Yeah, just don’t go overboard. No marks, remember?”

When McCree opens his eyes there’s a man standing over him with a stun baton in his hand, looking down at him with calculating eyes.

“Oh, no,” McCree rasps, “Nope, no, don’t even think about—“

He’s cut off as the stun baton is rammed into his gut, and he snaps his head up, eyes wide, smart retorts fleeing his head in panic. “Come on, now,” he says, pleading. The man holding the baton just grins, and thumbs the switch.

For the first time since he’d been brought in, McCree loses control. He screams on the first burst, starts shaking through the aftershocks, and doesn’t stop. The space between the first shock and the second is the worst, anxious with anticipation, and McCree thinks he would start hyperventilating but the biotic field is still active and it keeps him anchored, conscious. Aware enough to feel the second burst in its agonizing entirety.

Distantly McCree realizes he’s drooling all over himself. Humiliating. He almost doesn’t recognize the pathetic broken noises coming out of his mouth as his own voice. It’s almost sickening, the way he can’t talk even if he wanted to, can’t make his muscles obey his commands.

The third shock leaves him writhing on the floor, mouth open even as no sound comes out. He’s so close to blacking out, and in that moment he realizes he wants it more than anything. Blankness. Free from pain.

He almost sobs in relief when Carswell comes back to pick up the biotic device and turn it off.

The buzzing feeling fades, and McCree drifts.

 

\--

 

The room is almost empty when McCree wakes. It’s just him and Reyes now, with Reyes closer than he was before, sitting on the floor beside where McCree is sprawled, smoking his cigar. The smoke stings his eyes, and McCree raises one shaky hand to rub his face.

Reyes snorts. “Was wondering when you’d wake up.”

McCree frowns; his mouth is dry and throat hurts when he swallows. He sits up, pulling himself upright by the crate Reyes is leaning against. He’s suddenly aware that he’s still naked, but Reyes doesn’t move or look at him. “I could’ve used the nap,” McCree says, voice coarse. “I’ve had one hell of a day, partner.”

Reyes furrows his brows, face darkening. “Try again,” he says.

McCree breathes hard through his nose, choosing his next words carefully. “I’ve had one hell of a day, _sir_ ,” he grinds out, and Reyes nods once, a brief jerk of his chin.

“Give me your hand,” Reyes says, low, and after a brief moment of confusion McCree offers out his left hand, palm up. “Not that one. The hand you shoot with,” Reyes says, and McCree wordlessly switches sides.

Reyes takes his hand and turns it over, seemingly examining the callouses there, worn from years of gunslinging. McCree is wound tight, acidic and wired, and he doesn’t know if he wants to flinch away from the touch or lean into it, and either way he doesn’t move as Reyes takes his cigar between his thumb and forefinger, even as he knows what’s coming.

McCree doesn’t make a sound as Reyes grinds the ember out on the thin skin on the back of his hand. Stays still as Reyes flicks the ashes away, as the contact mark reddens and blisters. It hurts, of course, but in a distant way, something less tangible and real than the look he gets when he meets Reyes’ eyes. And for a moment he can’t look away, because Reyes is looking at him like he’s something interesting, something worthwhile, his expression like an open flame in a dark room, and maybe he’s just imagining it because Reyes’ expression doesn’t change or flicker when he looks down.

McCree wonders if this is it, this is them from now on, Reyes having seen him at his lowest, at his most unsure, and then, wondering if that was the _point_. His choice doesn’t seem like much of a choice, now. Maybe it never was.

“Rest up,” Reyes says, getting to his feet. “I need you in shape tomorrow.” He pauses by the door, and McCree turns his head. “Oh, and welcome to Blackwatch,” he adds, like an afterthought. And then he’s gone.

 


End file.
